The Bar

by James Maloney

The cops are out canvassing the bars, swinging their night sticks, walking slow and deliberate. They're looking around, letting their presence be known. It's an unspoken reminder to stay in line. The cops saunter in, friendly and familiar. Upstairs the boys are smoking reefer in the bathroom. The cops don't go that far. Here on the south side of the block authority is respected. As long as authority is respected you can do anything you want. The boys upstairs respect authority. "Everything in its proper place," they say, smiling at one another between hits. It's a nice bathroom with clean white light and very little piss on the floor. The bar is a nice bar, except that the drinks are weak unless you come here often. The waitress sometimes smiles as if she wasn't working. One of the cops tells a joke to the bartender, who nods but doesn't laugh. To him they're just two more customers. He offers them a drink and they turn it down; it's part of the ceremony. The bartender eyes the clock, twenty 'til twelve and ten minutes fast. The customers are drinking and talking to their compatriots and watching each other. What else is there for them to do? Music comes from a stereo controlled by the bartender, it is part of the mystery of his position: he knows the ingredients in a cuba libre, he is in charge of manipulating the bottles, and he knows what brands are attached to the hose for the house liquor. "Jim Beam," he says, "Gibley's, Gordon's, and Cutty Sark." But who knows? It is only a hose that comes from the depths of the bar. The cops slowly turn around to leave. They're in no hurry. "See you around," the tall one says. They're off to spread authority elsewhere. They're just part of the ambience, like the music, like the special night air provided by the owner and circulated freely by the air conditioner even when it isn't hot out. It all goes together to give the bar that certain atmosphere, like ash trays that are never dirty. The boys, out of the bathroom now, order another round of beers, while a middle-aged businessman takes their place and works to relieve his constipation. It is all part of the atmosphere. And the atmosphere, like authority, is always respected.

Author Biography:

This short vignette describes the atmosphere of Jim's favorite locale: a bar, any bar, just so the beer on tap is plentiful and someone is willing to buy. He writes or `does' art after getting up, which is usually around noon. Currently on furlough from an advertising design firm, he finds comfort in unemployment.

For more stories by James Maloney, click here.

This story first appeared in the Volume 3, Number 1 (Winter 1986-87) issue of
Sign of the Times-A Chronicle of Decadence in the Atomic Age

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